


Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

by holyhael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/pseuds/holyhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His body is as clean as a newborn baby’s except for the handprint branded on his shoulder. The scar he got on his first hunt, when the ghost slammed him into a sharp table edge? Gone. The discolored burn on the heel of his palm from the first time he tried cooking with the oven by himself? Gone.</p><p>His skin is soft. All of his freckles remain. It fascinates and scares the shit out of him at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> written during [deancas_69min](https://twitter.com/deancas_69min) for the prompt lazarus rising. technically i only spent 59 minutes on this but oh well. i didn't go back and edit anything.

His body is as clean as a newborn baby’s except for the handprint branded on his shoulder. The scar he got on his first hunt, when the ghost slammed him into a sharp table edge? Gone. The discolored burn on the heel of his palm from the first time he tried cooking with the oven by himself? Gone.

His skin is soft. All of his freckles remain. It fascinates and scares the shit out of him at the same time.

His body does not tell any stories except for the one he wishes hadn’t happened.

What right did Castiel have to save him anyway? Who said he wanted to be fucking saved?

He punches the bathroom mirror with a surge of anger. The sound of it breaking probably just woke Sam up, and he doesn’t care except for that Sam will be coming to investigate, and Dean isn’t in the mood to be social. He flips the lock on the door and finally notices the broken skin and blood on his knuckles.

His heart roars in his ears and beats like a drum against his chest.

It doesn’t hurt, but compared to what happened to him down in Hell, nothing will ever bother him again. Still, he presses the wound into a towel hanging on the wall. Bobby’ll give him shit about it, but what’s the point?

There’s a knocking at the door, cutting through Dean’s thoughts. “Dean? Bobby? What’s going on?”

“Everything’s fine, Sam,” Dean yells. “Get your ass back to sleep.”

He doesn’t expect Sam to obey him, but after a minute of being huffy, his footsteps march away. Dean sighs. He pulls the towel away from his knuckles, then runs the wound briefly under the faucet.

The skin is flayed, torn. He can’t help but stare at it as blood wells up to the surface again. The only sound he hears is his own heartbeat, until a flapping of feathers interposes the silence.

Startled by this strange sound, Dean whips around, only to find a newly-familiar presence in the room. He takes a deep breath, willing his pulse to slow down to normal. His heart feels like it’s caught up in his throat.

“What the fuck, dude?” Dean exclaims, scowling. “So, what, angels can fly?”

Castiel squints. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Dean repeats derisively. It feels unnatural to do so, but he turns his back on the angel. He doesn’t think he’s going to smite him or anything, and even if he does, maybe Dean’ll get some peace for a while. “Could at least knock first.”

“My apologies,” Castiel says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“You got some work for me then?” Dean asks. In the barn last night, Castiel never elaborated on this “work” God supposedly has for him, only saying “ _In time_.” If that time is now, Dean might just strangle this trench-coated son of a bitch.

“No. You’re injured.”

Dean looks down at his right hand, cradled to his chest. Only a small amount of blood lays in the cracks and crevices of his broken skin and flesh; it won’t need anymore treatment. Looking up from the wound, Dean turns around and brings his gaze to Castiel. “So?”

A familiar expression crosses Castiel’s face - familiar because Dean’s seen it a million times on Sam: the _are you kidding me_ bitch face.

“Here,” Castiel says, offering up his hand for Dean to take. Every instinct Dean has screams at him not to get even closer to this otherworldly being than he already is - why does Bobby’s bathroom have to be so damn small? - but he finds himself compelled to place his hand in Castiel’s. His breath stops as Castiel folds his other hand on top. Castiel’s eyes close for a moment, and in that moment, Dean feels a rush of _energy_ flowing into his hand. It’s burning hot and frigid cold at the same time, and it’s as alien as it is comforting. Dean gasps in shock.

As soon as the energy ebbs and Castiel opens his eyes, Dean yanks his hand away. He rubs at his knuckles with his thumb, but there is no unnatural texture between them. He looks down: the wound has been completely healed, just like the rest of his scars, and no trace of it remains.

“What was that for?” Dean demands hoarsely.

“You were injured.” Castiel says it like it’s obvious.

“I don’t see you going around fixing paraplegics or anything.”

Castiel licks his lips and looks away to a spot beyond Dean. “They... they aren’t you.”

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean is almost afraid to ask, but he needs to know the answer. What makes him so special? Why was he brought back to life? Why did he get a second chance? His eyes water up, and he blinks away the welling tears quickly.

Castiel sighs. “When I resurrected you, I used my grace to repair your decomposing body. Perhaps it is... senseless of me, but... I’m proud of my work. Your body is perfect. And to see you tarnish my work...” He flexes his jaw, but says no more.

“Great, I got one of the Magnificent Seven angels.” Dean shifts his weight and folds his arms over his chest. Castiel squints at him uncomprehendingly again. “Never mind. Just. Please don’t.”

“Don’t?”

Dean nods, and he grimaces because he sees from Castiel’s expression that he has to explain this to him, but he doesn’t know how. It’s just _not good_.

Castiel doesn’t show any impatience with Dean for not knowing what to say. That eases some of the pressure Dean feels at least.

“I need my scars to heal up on their own. I need to be my own.” It’s like pulling teeth trying to get this out. “No weird crap, no angel... whatever. Just let my human body do its human thing, capiche?”

Castiel furrows his eyebrows. “No,” he says.

Dean sighs. “Just don’t do that anymore, okay? Unless I ask for it or it’s life and death.”

Castiel considers this, and after several moments, he nods jerkily. “I understand.”

“Good,” Dean says. He closes his eyes and wipes his hand over his face, and he hears those feathers again. When he opens his eyes, Castiel is gone. Dean is alone in the bathroom, and he has to clean up the mirror shards. Maybe he should’ve asked Castiel to repair the mirror; after all, if he can fix Dean up from being four months dead, he can probably magic a mirror back together.

 

 


End file.
